Pure fiction tastes like chocolate.

April 23, 2012

I was sitting at home when there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find a small man wearing an orange suit and tie. He seemed to be of middle eastern or perhaps even east Asian descent and was completely hairless except for a large amount of jet black hair piled on his head. His tie had a metallic gleam to it.

A shudder ran through me. What I had feared most come to the door dressed like some kind of Indonesian enforcer. “I—I didn't know you could do that.” I stammered.

“Can I come in?” He said, pushing his way past me and sitting smartly in my living room. He smiled at me expectantly and my instincts kicked in—this man needed hospitality. I went into the kitchen opened a can of spam which I shaved into paper thin slips and rolled. Grabbing a can of Pringles I rushed back to the living room to find him scratching the ears of the Fluffbucket. That stupid dog was loving the attention.

“Ah,” He said. “The finest in processed meats.” He sat and ate quietly for a moment, taking bites of the spam and feeding the scraps to Fluffbucket's eager tongue.

“I'm sorry if the dog's bothering you.” I said, just to start conversation.

“Leave me alone,” said the Fluffbucket.

“Leave him alone,” repeated the man.

“Look,” I said. “I've been busy. First the baby came and ...”

“Yes, I know. I've read the scraps of your novel. Quite a story. But it's not done yet.”

“I've tried but ...” He put is hand up for silence.

“This is going to take a while. Go get some ouzo.”

I quickly fetched the liquor and brought it to the table with a pair of glasses and a pitcher of iced water. We sat and drank silently and I marveled at how his hair seemed to absorb light. I smiled to myself for a moment at the dichotomy of the infinite mass of hair atop a body so bound by a color that used to be fashionable in the 1970s. And so it hit me again—the ease of seeing things twice—and I for a moment grasped being one with the universe again. I suddenly knew the true nature of God and why we could only park on one side of the street. I could understand advanced calculus formulas and the logic of a watering schedule based on house numbers. It just all made sense and once again I felt compelled to tell my story. But now this man was here to take it all away.

“Don't worry—it doesn't hurt,” he said interrupting my thoughts.

“But I was so close.” I said.

“Not close enough. You didn't even tell anyone here about JakeJake.” He glanced out the window into my back yard. “Does he still live here?”

“I think so. He spray painted another message the other day on my garage. I leave him offerings but he never takes them.”

“I guess he's going to be a problem you going to have to live with,” he said. “Anyway, I need to get going. Can I have it?”

I wanted to be stubborn for a moment, to put up a fight. “My what?”

“Your creative license. We don't have to make this hard. I mean I could call the police.”

“Oh, sorry.” I handed over my papers.

He looked them over. “Everything appears to be in order. As of this date your license has been officially revoked.”

“Yup,” I said nonchalantly as if it was the ouzo talking. It wasn't though—i was giddy as if I had completed some Sisyphean task only to find that it actually was done and you didn't have to do it anymore. It was like being fired or arrested or even mowing the lawn extra short for the last time in the fall.

He leaned forward so that his intense hair was only inches from my face. “You're pretty nonchalant about this. You do know what this means, right?”

October 26, 2010

“There are approximately four thousand six hundred and thirty seven leaves in your front yard right now.”

“Shut up, Earle” I said. I was raking leaves during a nice fall afternoon when Earle decided to come over for a chat. He could afford to be lazy—his lawn was spotless.

“Well that's only in the first canon of your yard.”

“The first what?” I asked.

“The fist canon. You know, like how they flags are divided into for sections, or canons. The US flag has the white stars and blue background as it's first canon.”

“I always thought we divided them up by country. Or maybe continents.”

“No, they use canons. And just like flags, what is in each canon has meaning.” Earle continued excitedly. “The lawn is divided into four squares, which each one representing four aspects of the home behind it.”

“They have meaning? So what's the significance of this one here?” I pointed to the corner we were standing upon.

“This is the first canon. It's the most important part of the lawn. It shows the thing that is closest to the home and family's heart. Since you have a plum tree here, I'd say that you value life and nurturing.”

“What about them?” I asked, pointing to the house across the street where the breeder family lived.

”They have that chart promoting Jacob's potty training status in their first canon. It means that family is their primary function. Or maybe it just means that they're main guidance is the elimination of their children”

“I guess the fact they have six kids and one more on the way also shows that.” I said. “What about their second canon?”

“The second canon represents purity. They shouldn't have anything in there. The fact that it's got a couple of random toys there indicates that the household isn't concerned with their own purity.”

“And the third canon?” I asked. It was adorned with several political signs.

“That's how they want the community to see them. They're saying that they want to work for the community through political means.”

I looked at the collection of signs. They had five—including two different candidates for the same office and one out of district sign. “Looks like they just want people to think they're confused. What about the forth canon?”

“Ahh, that's another important one. It's the opposite of the first canon, both physically and abstractly. It should show the opposite of spiritualist … kind of like a feeling in your bowels.”

“Bowels? Don't you mean guts? Like a gut feeling?”

“Yes, that's it.” He looked across the street at the forth canon. It was bare except for a small sign warning the casual passerby that the lawn had catered by a local lawn maintenance company and that some people might have a reaction. It even included a skull and crossbones. “What do you suppose they mean by that?” Earle asked.

January 02, 2010

I woke up
and was greeted by the presence of seven inches of freshly fallen snow. I
really like snow-- like to ski in it, I like to build things with it and I even
like to throw it. I also enjoy shoveling it--Shoveling it is the best part. So
I got dressed, made a cup of tea, and woke up the (teenaged) kid.

He was, understandably
not as exited as I was about the presence of snow. I had to threaten to start
driving him to school to spur him into action. I then retired to the kitchen to
surf and sip my tea to the sounds of a scraping shovel.

It scraped
for a few moments, and then stopped. Shortly afterward, the (teenaged) kid
reappeared in the kitchen, dripping snow from his boots.

“The shovel’s
broken,” he announced.

“How can
the shovel be broken?”

“The snow
sticks to it. It makes it really heavy.”

“Deal with
it. Get out there and shovel,” I said sternly.

He
clomped
back outside leaving puddles of cold water, and I sipped my tea,
waiting patiently. I knew it would be would return shortly with another
creative excuse.

He promptly
returned five minutes later, removing his coat. “Is there any pizza?” He asked.

“You have
to shovel first,” I said.

“I’m done.“
He continued to rummage through the fridge, pulling out a bag of leftover
pepperoni pizza.

“How can
you be done? You just went out there.”

“I got
someone to do it for me.” He said, reaching for a bottle of mustard.

“What?”

“This guy
who had a snow plows on his tractor.” He said, closing the fridge and putting
the mustard and pizza on the table. “Where’s the peanut butter?”

“You’re
telling me someone just came by and cleared the driveway?”

“What’s so
weird about that?” He asked, searching the cabinets for a jar of peanut butter.

“That’s not
natural. It’s like a one in a trillion chance. Like the chance of a rock from
Mars flying off the planet and coming to land in the backyard.”

“Or maybe
Penthouse Forums?” He asked slyly.

“How do you
know about that?” I asked.

“Wikipedia.
Everything’s on Wikipedia. Did you know that Hitler had rickets?”

“Rickets?”

“Yeah, you
know-the disease you get from eating uncooked pork.” He began to spread peanut
butter liberally on several pizza slices.

“What does
that have to do with the snow being cleared off by some stranger?”

The
(teenaged) kid used the squeeze bottle of mustard to put light brown smile
faces on the peanutbuttered pizza slices. The vague odor of horseradish wafted
through the air. “Hitler got rickets when he was 16. He found out about it when
he was sent out to shovel after a big snowstorm.”

“So?”

“I told the
guy I had rickets, and he offered to plow for me.” He arranged his pizza slices
on a plate and grabbed a can of Coke. “Mind if I take this upstairs?”

“Um, yeah.”

I looked
outside, and sure enough, the driveway and sidewalks were all clear of snow.

October 21, 2009

While reading this week’s
newspaper, I found this letter to the editor:

“Dear Editor:

“A stinky problem has
emerged in our fair city—a very stinky problem. I’m talking about all of the
skunks that have been infesting our crawl spaces, garages and shrubbery. They
are a problem that affects us all for sanitary and other olfactory concerns.

“The lady on channel 5 said
that there are so many because of the wet fall we had last year and that they
had lots of food. She said they could be a nuisance –haha, and that it was best
not to feed them. I guess they don’t have skunks from wherever she’s from
because who would feed a skunk? The problem really is that drug dealers use the
smell to cover illegal things up and that’s a threat to us all.

“Folks who want to get rid
of them can do several things. Yu can trap them and take them far away, but
your car will smell bad. Better to have a truck. Skunks like to eat acorns so
if you have oak trees you should pick them up. We should also pass a law
against those acorn people because it was OK when they were just feeding
squirrels, but now we have a problem.

“The city council and mayor
need to work on this problem, and not with some socialist money spending
program where they import the special lady skunks who don’t smell to interbreed
with the skunks around here. That would not work, like it did when they bought
mongooses to Hawaii.

“Please call your councilman
and urge them to find a solution for this problem. The safety of our community
depends upon it.

January 07, 2009

It was 5:16 a.m. when my doorbell rang.
I pulled on a pair of dirty pants and ran down to the front door. I
was greeted by a short, somewhat bald and fat man with white hair and
beard. He was wearing a red sweatshirt and green denim vest. He was
also holding the cat.

“Is this your cat?” He asked. I
nodded agreement. “Well, I have a problem with him. He's stealing
my Wi-Fi.”

I looked at the cat. “So what was he
doing? Downloading kitty porn?”

The man scowled. “Look, I'm
serious. Your cat is stealing my Wi-Fi. Every time I see him come in
my back yard my connection slows dramatically.” The sweatshirt and
vest combo made him look like some kind of post apocalyptic Santa
figure.

“Dramatically?” I reached over and
took the cat from him.

“The connection times out--or it just
gets real slow. I have a webcam set up for my back yard, and every
time he comes in the yard, the connection slows down. The pictures
starts to stutter.” He gave me a vacant gaze, as if an awareness
came over him. “Do you have any idea why it's happening?”

This guy has shown up before 6 in the
morning on my doorstep and he's asking me why his computer doesn't
work. I don't know why, but everywhere I go people are asking me to
fix their computers. It's like the magnets in the hard drive have
somehow caused a polarization in my cells that any random computer
slacker can sense. So I decided to take the easy way out. “Could be
the RFID chip.”

“RFID chip?” The man became a bit
agitated. “What's that?”

“It's a chip put inside the cat for
identification. If cat gets lost, the authorities can scan it and get
info on who the cat is.”

“Your cat had a CAT scan? What did
you do, sedate him?” His eyes glinted with excitement of subjecting
a cat to a giant magnet.

“No, it's usually just to help people
find their lost cats.”

He thought for a moment. “Why would
anyone want to find a lost cat?” I always wondered that myself.
It's usually best if the cat didn't come back, as it tends to save on
legal expenses.

“Well, in his case, it was the FBI.”
I dropped the cat to the floor, and he darted off to find some new
and incredibly inconvenient place in which to hork up a hairball.
“They put it in.”

“The FBI?” He pondered that concept
for a moment. “You mean, like some kind of witness protection
program?”

“Well, something like that. He was
actually trained to sniff out stuff. His specialty was
electronic equipment, especially computers.”

“He would sniff out computers? Why
have a cat do that?”

“He was used in the holds of ocean-going ships. His small size would allow him to go into the small
spaces below decks. He was actually pretty good from what I
understand. He was responsible for the great RAM bust on the coast a
few years ago--you know, the one involving that cult that was
planning on putting USB ports in all its members.”

“So where did you get him?”

“We got him at an animal rescue
shelter. The FBI showed up a few weeks later explaining that they
needed his testimony for another case involving the Persian mob. They
took him away for a few days and then returned him with a new set of
identity papers and the RFID chip. I asked the FBI if I could get a
badge, but they told me that he was retired,.”

“Oh. So that's why my Wi-Fi is messed
up?”

“Yeah. He messes up my connection,
too. In fact, every time I want to use the laptop in bed, I have to
put the cat out.”

“Wow, that sounds like a bummer. Why
did they retire him?”

“Apparently, it's a hard for trained
cats. With dogs, it's easy—they can be trained to just sit down and
stare when they find contraband. But these cats—they would have to
run through these big ships, and mark everywhere they found
contraband. That's what made it hard.”

October 21, 2008

It was Tuesday, and I had to go
shopping. The Bride was home and awake, so I didn't have to take the
baby. I love taking the baby with me when I shop because I love the
attention. I have a fancy leather strap that I use to hold her, with
a couple of chains. It looks kind of mean and gothic, but the baby
loves it. It gets even better when I start talking about my
boyfriend. But not today.

“Don't forget to pick up a binkie.”
The Bride said as I grabbed my keys.

“We need another binkie? Don't we
have something like sixteen already?” The baby chirped in
agreement. She was quite content in the baby trampoline that we
bought at a garage sale a few weeks ago.

No, we don't have a blue one.”

I looked at the Bride. “Um, I don't
think the colors make them taste different.”

“I don't know. I just know they're
called Blu. If you can't get them at the grocery store, so you'll
have to go to the babypolloza place.”

So I went to the grocery store first to
pick up some essentials needed for dinner that night. I looked at the
selection of binkies, but didn't see the one the Bride wanted me to
get. I did get a blue one anyway just because they might actually
taste different.

My quest for dinner was suspended by a
sampler. “Excuse me sir, would you like to try some emmenthaler?
It's made from ostrich milk and sherry.”

I had to stop. “Ostrich milk? I
didn't know ostriches had mammarys.”

“They have fathers, too.” The
sample lady had bright red hair that was inadequately contained by an
old hairnet.

“Yeah, I know. But they don't produce
milk, either.”

“Sure they do. It's really good, too.
We also have an ale infused Parmesan that's good on bratwurst. “
Her hair glinted vaguely metallic under the halogen track lights that
were installed because they were fashionable. I was still trying to
get used to the idea that grocery stores were fashionable.

“Bratwurst? Parmesan on bratwurst?
That sounds like some hardcore marketing food. Anyway, it can't be
ostrich cheese. Ostriches are birds—they don't have mammary glands.
You know, udders.' I didn't want to point to her own personal set
because that thought grossed me out.

“Sure they do—you can even see them
on the package” She held up a package of bird cheese—and sure
enough, there was a picture of an ostrich with teats hanging down.

I took the package to examine it
closely, and realized that what I thought were teats were actually
strategically placed feathers. A closer examination of the package
indicated thats this was a cheese like product made from ostrich
eggs.

I pointed out the strategically placed
feathers. “It's not made from ostrich milk.” I said. “It's made
from fermented ostrich beaks and shells.”

“What?” The sampler peered at the
package in mt hand. “I've eaten almost full package.” She looked
at me suspiciously. “That's not true.”

“Sure it is.” I turned the package
over and pointed out the long list of ingredients on the back,
starting with the bold black letters that sad 'This is a processed
cheese type food product.' Her eyes adopted a vacant stare as she
was confronted by the text.

“Oh. You said fermented? What's
that?' Her voice seemed pitched higher in alarm.

"It's a process where they use bacteria
to make alcohol. It's perfectly safe.”

“Alcohol? With bacteria? I can't eat
this anymore!” She said. She began to take down her display.

“Why not?” I asked.

“I can't support that kind of product. It's an abomination and immoral."

October 02, 2008

It was Thursday night, and I was taking
out the trash. Earl saw me wheeling the barrels to the curb and came
over.

“Hey, your recycling bin isn't blue.”
It's true, mine wasn't. When the previous neighbors left, they took
their bin with them. After reading the FAQ on my sub-urban city's
website, I went out and bought two regular trash cans, and wrote
“recycling” with a magic marker on both of them.

“No, I don't. Those blue bins aren't
big enough.” This was true piles of beer cans, newspapers and the
occasional lawn mower blade easily filled both of the large cans.

“But your bins are supposed to be
blue. They're not supposed to pick it up otherwise.”

“Well, these are green. Isn't that
more with the 'Green' movement?”

“They're not really green.” He was
right, they actually were kind of olive drab.

“But they are kind of green.” I
retorted.

Earl stared at the cans intently for a
moment, and then spoke. “Let me ask you something—how come you
are the only person on the block that has these large green
cans—everyone else has our small bins issued by the city. How did
you get them? How did you get the sanitation engineers to pick them
up?”

“Well, earl, you know that I'm an
appointed judge.”

“A judge of election.” Earl stated
correctly.

“Doesn't make a difference. When
you're a judge, you get special privileges. It's actually pretty
sophisticated.”

“Yes?” Earl was suspicious, like a
small dog eying a hotdog dangling from a toddler's fist.

“You see, I was issued these cans by
the government. That's why they're this shade of green.”

“What? They're army surplus?'

“Kind of. They're actually specially
treated plastic. They were originally used for storing nuclear
waste.”

Earl took a few steps upwind.
“Radioactive waste?”

“Yes. By accident, scientists
discovered that the residual radiation was an excellent deterrent to
flies. In fact, the irradiation also kills all of the bacteria.
Because of it, my garbage is actually sterile.”

The Bride returned with a collection of groceries. I usually
don't let her shop because of her tendency to purchase impulse items. A quick
survey of the bags indicate purchases of some kind of spray nozzle for the
shower, a package of pre-threaded needles and a backup battery pack for a sump
pump that was guaranteed to run for three minutes.

But among the collection of useful groceries was rum mint
and limes. So I froze my ass off grilling steaks while she mashed potatoes, and
we had a nice dinner at home, followed with a round of mojitos. Of course,
being 8.378 months pregnant, she's drinking virgin mojitos, while I arrange to
have mine with a double ration of rum.

"You know," She said, "It's Fat
Tuesday."

"It is? Wow, that snuck up fast."

"Yeah, I know. I'm going to go over to St.
Whatchamallits to get my forehead smudged tomorrow. You want to come?'

"No, I think I'll be busy."

"Anyway, I was thinking … why don't you get a job for
Lent?"

I contemplated her idea overnight, and the next morning
called the agency that had placed me at my last data schlepping job. They
quickly told me to report to one of the gray office fortresses that guarded the
edge of our sub-urban area from the wilds of cornfields. After parking my car
in a treeless lot, I was greeted at the front door by a woman wearing large
swaths of polyester. She led me through a series of cubicle-laden offices to a
drab box near a windowless wall. The wall sported a motivational picture of a
bunch of zebras, with the motivating message "Be One of the Herd!" in
stylized script.

"Please have a seat." She handed me a packet of
mimeographed pages. "Here's the basic instructions for accessing the QAS
and SPLF systems. Your network login id is J41GQ5, which is also the password
for your voicemail, fax/copier access and the lock on the office supply closet.
To log into the timecard system, you just use your number minus the status
prefix, so your login id there is 41GQ5t, with the 't' always in lowercase
because you're a temporary employee. To access the Mainline system, use your
mainline id of mcr1chb, and make sure it's a separate password then your J41GQ5
login password. Set up your voicemail now, and there's a meeting in 20 minutes
about your project. Please review the special voicemail instructions on top of
your packet."

"There are special instructions for the
voicemail?" I asked.

"Yes. You have to include your network login. You're a
J series, which means a contractor with a life expectancy between three and six
months, though the 41 is reserved for projects that don’t have an anticipated
end date."

So I recorded my voicemail and went to the meeting where I
listened to two guys in ties tell me seven times that they wanted this
particular data carefully inspected, researched, reconfigured and processed
into hundreds of little tiny sets, so that the tiny data sets could then be
combined in such a way that it would appear as if they were playing with LEGOs.

When I returned from lunch, a workman was affixing a
nameplate to the cubicle wall. It said 'JL41GQ15'.

"Don't I get one with my name?" I asked the
workman.

"Yes, but we don't have the nameplate now. The guy who
does the names refused to do so this week because we changed suppliers, and the
new letter style was labeled 'Roman.' You see, he's Greek, and was offended by
that for some reason about stealing their gods, so he refused to use them.
He'll be fired on Thursday."

"Okay, but it's not right--there's an extra number in
there."

"No, that's supposed to be there. It's to help people
find your cubicle. By the way, did they tell you not to pin up anything on
cubicle walls that face west?" He then pointed north.

"Um, no. Why's that?"

"It interferes with cell phone reception."

I thanked him and delved into my paperwork. At 3 in the
afternoon, the speakers above stopped their string of disco favorites that was
surely some satellite feed from studio54 and announced that it was time for the
afternoon cheer. So I followed everyone else to the cafeteria, where we all saw
two men and a woman in suits.

They proceeded to explain that the division had just made
their quarterly quotas on sales. After each one took turns thanking everyone
for their hard work, the three then started clapping in unison. The crowd
immediately joined in. The three executives shouted in unison:

It's going to be a long six weeks. I wondered if
they would let me work from home. I went back to my cubicle, and began
to look over the datasets I was supposed to schlep. Datasets are pretty
tepid and dull, and soon I felt rather sleepy. I stood and stretched,
but it didn't really help. So I laid my head down on the keyboard and
closed my eyes for a few moments.

February 04, 2008

It snowed last night. Not enough to cancel school, so after
I sent the (teenaged) kid off to school, I grabbed a shovel and started working
on the driveway. Fred was also out working on his, but using the more modern
convenience of a snowblower. The thing is huge, rides on four wheels and sounds
like a bus. I'd be really envious except I knew he had spent the last two hours
in his garage trying to get it started. I waved to him.

He politely turned his snowblower off. "Hi, Chris. That
was some kind of storm last night. Isn't this great?"

"Yeah, it's a pretty fine machine. Works really fast,
too. I'll have the rest of this driveway finished in a few minutes. I bet you
wish you had one." I guess it never occurred to him that the two hours in
his garage didn't count.

"It's not that hard. Besides, my kid usually does
it."

Across the street, another snowblower started. Fred and I
watched as Earle cut a swath from his garage to the street. Upon seeing us
watching him, he shut his off and came over. "Hey, neighbors! A fine day
for some exercise!"

"That's a nice machine." Fred said. "Where'd
you get it?"

"Over at that discount home store off the highway. I
picked it up a few years ago. It's been great. It starts up every time, and all
I've ever had to do is put gas in it. Not quite as big as yours, though."

"Yeah, I know she's big, but she gets the job done
faster."

"Kind of like the SUV of snowblowers," I added.

Earle did a movement that I could only best describe as a
theatrical doubletake. I've spent a lot of time with Earle in the past, and
have discovered that he often enjoys taking an alternative view on things. And
that doubletake was his visual tic that revealed when this happens. "You
know," he said, "it's almost as if the size of the snowblower can
reveal certain aspects of people's personalities."

"How's that going to work?" I said, "I don't
have a snowblower."

"That's my point," Earle continued. "You see,
you're kind of a down-to-earth guy, so you don't have one. I have the nice,
modern efficient machine because I'm an engineer. When did you get yours,
Fred?"

"1980. Bought it at Sears." I was shocked he
didn't buy it at Wal-Mart.

"See--it's older. And a bit larger. Not that I meant to
imply you're fat, Fred. It's solid--it sits on a foundation of four stout
tires. An awesome foundation."

I had to throw Earle a curveball. "I wonder how Freud
would explain this?"

"Freud? Hmm, I'm thinking it would be something to do
with envy."

"Envy? What do you mean by that?" A little bit of
worry crept into Fred's voice. You're
not trying to say we're trying to compensate for a lack of endowment?"

"Well, think about it," Earle said. "They are
petty big, kind of like an extension of ourselves. And look what they do--they
shoot out snow. And the bigger the blower the more you can shoot."

"I don't like that. I don't like that at all. I've got
to finish this driveway." Fred pulled on the starter cord. The machine
sputtered a few moments, but failed to start. Fred swore--but being the
born-again Christian he is, swore by placing two unrelated nouns together. He
tried several more times without success.

"Fred," Earle said, "I've got some Viagra
inside. If you want, I can crush up one and put it in the gas tank."

January 12, 2008

Some people serve their country by
joining the armed forces. Others volunteer at soup kitchens and thrift store.
My choice for public service is to be a Judge of Election.

Okay, so it’s not on par with
fighting in the war or helping the homeless, and I get paid, but it feels like
a Sisyphean task making sure voting goes smoothly. To make it more interesting,
recent voting technology has altered the job considerably, something that was
acknowledged by the election commission appointing ‘Chief Judges,’ who, in
actuality, were technically proficient in running and repairing various
electronic voting devices. In a cruel bureaucratic turn, Chief Judges don’t
have any authority over other judges—but they do have authority over the
equipment. Hence, the Chief Judge spends most of their day bossing around
inanimate objects. The election commission has bestowed this honor upon me.

But being an election judge means
you have to be trained. And as there is an election coming up, I received
notice to report to a training class. Unfortunately alcohol use is frowned upon
and my supply of hallucinogenic mushrooms was low, so I had to go stone cold
sober.

I walked into the room reserved for
training, and was confronted by the usual crowd of elderly who have opted to
supplement their Social Security with a little government work. In my
experience, I have found that 85 percent of election judges are a: elderly, b:
highly opinionated, and c: clueless about efficient voting procedures. On
several occasions, I have physically disabled a judge running amok.
Fortunately, the elderly are easily taken down by physical force.

The training session starts out by
administering the test. This test is actually quite important, as payment for
being an election judge depends upon you successfully completing the test. But
rather then actually testing to see if prospective judges know anything, the
accepted procedure is to go through the test, question by question, and have a
lengthily discourse on the correct answer. This class was no exception. The
instructor proceeded to read the first question, solicit correct responses from
the class, and then provide a discussion on why the answer is correct.

So the instructor will read a
question: “True or False: Judges should arrive 30 minutes before the polls open
to set up the precinct for the day’s activities. Anyone?”

An elderly woman in the audience
responds: “In our polling place during the last election, we all got there 90
minutes before the polls opened, but there was no one to let us in, so we had
to wait outside for an hour. My hair was wet, and it froze to my ears.”

The instructor will then prompt the
audience for another answer. Invariably, it usually takes two or three people
before someone figures out that, since it’s a true/false question, they simply
need to say “true.”

At that point, the instructor will
then explain the answer. “According to the Judge of Election Handbook, which
was approved by both the county board and state legislator, judges are to
arrive at the polling place thirty minutes before the polls open. This means,
since the polls open at 6 a.m., you have to be there at 5:30, so you can help
set up the equipment, put up all the signs, and decide who’s working at each of
the five stations. It’s also important to note that if the polling place isn’t
available to you at 5:30, like if the door is locked or the floor is covered in
disgusting chemicals like molasses, then you need to call the election
commission.”

At that point, an audience member
will ask: “But what if it isn’t a disgusting liquid, but rather something kind
of clean, like sand? We had a problem in the last election because our polling
place had sand on the floor.”

This doesn’t really sound too bad
until you realize there are 144 questions on the test.

Once the class has gone through all
of the questions, the instructor then asks if there are any other questions.
One of the judges stood up and said, “Is it okay if the pollwatchers bring in
doughnuts and coffee, but not share them with the election judges?”

“The pollwatchers are there simply
to make sure that the polling place operates as specified by law. They have the
right to observe all voting procedures, and can be in the polling place from
when it opens until all the judges leave.” The instructor paused to gulp more
air. “The pollwatchers do have the right to bring in any food or drink for
their own purposes unless it is prohibited by the owner of the polling place,
or if it interferes with voting.”

“So if the judges decide that it’s
interfering in the polling place, the pollwatchers have to remove the food?”
The man looked giddy at the prospect.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Another judge stood up. “But what if
the food causes a judge to have a severe allergy?”

“Well, a severe allergy might be
something that would interfere with voting, depending upon what happens. If the
person simply has their eyes water, or maybe get the sniffles, then it wouldn’t
be considered a problem.”

“What about incontinence?”

“Incontinence might be a valid
reason, but I’ve never heard of that being an issue before. All of our polling
places are required to provide bathroom facilities.”

An older woman wearing a tweed
housecoat stood up. “I understand that the judges are the final authority on
deciding who can vote. I’ve heard that other polling places actually gave dogs
the right to vote. Can we do that here?”

“Yeah, that’s the way they do it at
Wal-Mart,” someone shouted from across the room. The lady wearing the tweed
housecoat fumbled with her wallet.

“Election judges do have the
authority, within reason, to decide who can and can not vote.” The instructor
said. “They still have to abide by all of the state statues, which do indicate
that only humans can be franchised as voters.”

“What does Subway have to do with
voting?” Asked someone up front.

The lady with the tweed housecoat
was still standing, and had produced a plastic accordion filled with pictures
of a Yorkshire terrier bedecked in patriotic ribbons. “This is Robert. I think
he should be able to vote. He sleeps with me at night.”

“Don’t some Wal-Marts have Subways
in them?” asked a disembodied voice from the rear.

“I’m sorry, but it’s not possible
for your dog to vote, ma’am.” The instructor said.

“But if the other judges agree, then
it would be okay, wouldn’t it? Don’t the judges have the right to decide who
votes?”

“You can buy franchises of
Wal-Mart?” asked another voice from the front.

“The right to vote is limited to
people. Dogs can’t vote,” the instructor said.

“Once you’re appointed to be a
judge, then you’re a judge for the whole two-year term?” I looked closely at
the youngish woman standing near the back. It was Violent Moonbeam.

“Yes, once you have completed the
course, you are officially appointed as a judge within the county, along with
all of the rights and responsibilities of the judgeship in which you are
appointed with,” the instructor answered.

“What if you also happen to be a
public notary?” Asked someone in the front row.

“So once I have been appointed as a
judge of election, I can then also be eligible for appointments to other
judgeships?” Violent asked.

“Yes, that’s correct. If you have
sufficient education and skills, you could also serve in variety of other
judgeships, once appointed.”

“So I could be a traffic judge?”
Asked an old man up front.

“If you have experience in the
traffic court, yes you could be appointed to a traffic judgeship.”

“What if I want to be a new kind of
judge, like a judge that goes out and determines if someone’s lawn is properly
mowed?” someone from the rear asked.

“Landscape judgeships are usually
awarded by municipalities, but we do have two slots. They’re currently
occupied,” the instructor replied.

"But what if I just want to do
it on a volunteer basis?” asked an old man in front.

After another forty-five minutes of
questions, the meeting broke up. Thankfully, I have no more meetings for the
next two years.